Issue 145

Winter & Spring 2014

Image from War Movie

Fiction Tom Williams Fiction Tom Williams

Don't Start Me Talkin' (novel excerpt)

Indiana Northern University appears entirely made of concrete. My alma mater wasn’t Harvard, but we had green places to meet, toss the bee, and ogle ladies. Here, there’s no quaint office of the registrar built at the turn of the century, no frolicking squirrels and tree-lined, undulating brick paths.

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Fiction John Dufresne Fiction John Dufresne

Jamokes

A man with a 5-inch lockback knife buried to its heel in his chest stumbles into Café Olé on West Dixie, settles into a chair, and leans his shoulder against the wall. The barista looks up from his issue of Automundo and sees the bleeding man. “Puta madré, dude! You’re stabbed!”

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Fiction Lucas Southworth Fiction Lucas Southworth

A Murder in Four Shorts

I.

Maybe.

A party. A kitchen. A thinning crowd. Near the table, a boy meets a girl. They talk together and laugh. When the boy offers to walk the girl home, she hesitates.

There are dangerous people about, the boy insists.

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Fiction John Keene Fiction John Keene

Mannahatta

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

According to Simon Hart’s 1959 study The Prehistory of the New Netherland Company: Amsterdam Notarial Records of the First Dutch Voyages to the Hudson, published by the City of Amsterdam Press, a certain “Jan Rodrigues,” described as a “mulatto . . . of San Domingo,” sailed to what is now Manhattan, New York, in 1613 aboard the Jonge Tobias, captained and owned by Thijs Volckenz Mossel. Hart continues by pointing out that Rodrigues was “not satisfied on Mossel’s ship and did not wish to go back to Holland with him.”

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Fiction Tien-Yi Lee Fiction Tien-Yi Lee

Talisman

Red. Li Wen can smell the petals, bathed in rosewater, floating in the grass by her feet.

White. This is Li Wen’s granddaughter as she walks down the aisle, carrying a bouquet of calla lilies. White. The clarity in her eyes. White. The pearls around her long, graceful neck.

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Fiction Ron Rash Fiction Ron Rash

The Return

Benjamin Miller awoke beneath a shroud of white petals, several of which lay like soft coins over his eyes. The ground trembled vaguely now, the cannon and mortars wheeled elsewhere. He did not hear the explosions, only felt them.

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Fiction Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Fiction Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Shadow Work

What We Do

On Mondays we stitch blouses made of organza, christening dresses edged with edelweiss lace. On Tuesdays we work on quilts colored like birds. On Wednesdays we darn, our stitches tiny as a mouse’s eyelash.

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